Backing Away

     Beware: I’m furious. I’m about to launch a “rant.” It might turn ugly. All the same, I’m not going to hold anything back. Consider yourselves forewarned, Gentle Readers.

     Large-scale conflicts all have the same genesis: the politicization of some idea or practice. I’ve said this. So has my beloved colleague Linda Fox. We gave the subject our best, but too few of you have taken it to heart. A saddening percentage of you have adopted politicization tactics, not understanding that it will make you indistinguishable from the Left.

     As I’ve made it a working assumption that the politicization of an issue will bring conflict, I’ve been trying to stay clear of such things. Another working assumption is that he who politicizes knows what he’s doing; therefore he seeks the conflict it will bring. And we have no more room for conflict in this conflict-ridden age.

     So I’m distancing myself from politics and political advocacy.

     What? That distresses you? Come on! Surely you don’t read my interminable tirades just to get your glands in a lather. Who needs the agita? I’d rather believe that I’ve made you feel better. I intend to set my fingers to these BLEEP!ing keys with only that in mind henceforward.

     Feel better, Gentle Reader. Feel at ease, at peace. “Peace on Earth and good will toward men,” as the angels sang to the shepherds at Bethlehem. To get that precious feeling, you must back away from anything and everything that’s been politicized. Make all things private, as they were before that noxious nonsense that’s called The State started throwing its weight around.

     Even if you can only do so for yourself, think and act as if no such lunacy as some people ordering others around (and jailing or killing them for disobedience) had ever arisen among us.

---

     Ten years ago, I wrote:

     Virtually every op-ed writer currently blathering has chosen to align himself with some political ideology. Virtually all such persons routinely cheerlead for one or the other of the two major political parties. They might well be sincere in their convictions. They might well be benevolently inclined toward the rest of us: they might sincerely believe that the political agendas they promote and support would be for the best, and that once they’re in place, we would all be as happy as kings.
     It doesn’t matter. They’re pushing politics – the pursuit of power over others – as the cure for everything that ails us. Even those who argue solely for the repeal of this or that oppressive law are pushing politics.

     I was echoing another brilliant thinker and writer:

     This must be said: There are too many "great" men in the world — legislators, organizers, do-gooders, leaders of the people, fathers of nations, and so on, and so on. Too many persons place themselves above mankind; they make a career of organizing it, patronizing it, and ruling it.
     Now someone will say: "You yourself are doing this very thing."
     True. But it must be admitted that I act in an entirely different sense; if I have joined the ranks of the reformers, it is solely for the purpose of persuading them to leave people alone. I do not look upon people as Vancauson looked upon his automaton. Rather, just as the physiologist accepts the human body as it is, so do I accept people as they are. I desire only to study and admire.

     “Great men.” Have you reflected on the inanity of that phrase lately? What qualifies a man as “great?” Is it personal achievement, or is it the ascent to political power? Time was, we honored the first sort; we endured the second, as men have done since States first emerged to bedevil us. Today it’s rather the reverse.

     George Herron had something to say about that:

     The possession of power over others is inherently destructive both to the possessor of power and to those over whom it is exercised. And the great man of the future, in distinction from the great man of the past, is he who will seek to create power in people, and not gain power over them. The great man of the future is he who will refuse to be great at all, in the historic sense; he is the man who will literally lose himself, who will altogether diffuse himself in the life of humanity.

     That is greatness. That is humility: the great and underappreciated Christian virtue. It’s required that a man be humble, if he is to submit himself to the will of God. And damned near no one for whom the trumpets sound their fanfares exemplifies or exercises it.

     I shan’t claim to be an exemplar of humility. I know better. My tendency to think myself superior to others has caused me most of the grief I’ve known. That doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate its importance; rather the reverse. It’s one of the hardest-learned of all my lessons.

     Paradoxically, for Smith to tell Jones to “be humble” usually has the opposite effect. It produces anger, even fury. Imagine telling any of today’s “great men” that they should be humble. What sort of response would you expect? “Guards! Throw this person down the steps. Make it hurt.”

     Time was, it was actually a crime to tell a “great man” to be humble. It was called lèse-majesté. It could get the offender summarily beheaded. Don’t take my word for it; look it up. Look into the history of monarchy; you’ll find it.

     Tells you something about the relationship of humility to “greatness,” doesn’t it?

     Draw the BLEEP!ing moral.

---

     I’ve known a genuinely great man. He was my friend, for a time. He’s passed away, one of the most painful losses of my life... and indeed, one of the greatest recent losses of this world, though the world be unaware of it. Yet his greatness went unrecognized by nearly everyone. That’s as he would have wanted it, too.

     He didn’t care what others were doing. He didn’t care what others said or thought. He simply lived, loved, worked, and created. He made a specialty out of the employment of “obsolete” technologies to build useful, even innovative things. He joked that his mantra should be “There has to be a harder way to do this.” Really, I attach more importance to something else he said once:

     “I have my wife and my mountain. What else does anyone need?”

     As far as I know, he had no political involvements, beyond talking to me – and I’ve often regretted the time we wasted on political subjects. He wanted nothing but to create, to build, and to be left alone with the woman he loved and the few men he held as friends. By dint of great intellect, great imagination, and great labors, he got his wish.

---

     I could go on, but I’ll spare you. I’d originally had a specific example in mind of how the politicization of some phenomenon – i.e., turning it into an “issue” that requires mass approval or disapproval – destroys our peace, but I’m worn out. I suppose I’m sparing myself, too.

     I wish you peace. It’s rare and precious today, like freedom. But they’re complementary assets; each, once achieved, brings the other. Their common prerequisite is the abjuration of all political involvement, however well-intended. The implications are for you to draw.

     Happy Hallowe’en. Feel free to leave the candy corn for me. I like it.

In The Beginning...

     “Live fast. Die young. Leave a good-looking corpse.” – Originally from Knock on Any Door. Also, motto of the Pagans motorcycle gang.

     ...there was a lot of scurrying around and trying to “look busy.” But apart from that, we’re told that God instructed Adam and Eve to “Be fruitful and multiply.” (Genesis 1:28) If He ever countermanded that dictum (“Okay, that’s enough multiplying. You can stop now. Please!”) the Bible doesn’t record it.

     It doesn’t really matter whether you take the Bible literally as the Word of God. (I don’t. It was written by men. They may have been divinely inspired, but they weren’t God Himself.) Reproduction, like survival, is hard-wired into our natures. It takes a lot of disincentive to suppress that impulse.

     Youth culture plus feminism have provided that disincentive, in quantity.

     Youth culture strikes me as the ultimately self-defeating agenda. It literally cannot be fulfilled. Except for those like the persons in the quote at the top of this screed, we will get old. Our bodies will age and weaken. Our faces will wrinkle. And of course, one way or another, we’ll die. All of us. (Yes, you too, Gentle Reader, though I hate to think it.)

     Feminism, once severed from its Susan B. Anthony / Elizabeth Cady Stanton egalitarian roots, coupled to the perversity of youth culture with a tragic synergy. It made women neglect their characters and personalities in favor of obsessive concentration on their bodies and faces. Though it’s seldom labeled as such, that is actually a variety of gluttony.

     It also made women averse to child-bearing.

     This is of particular interest to me just now, owing to my current novel-in-progress.

---

     The possibility of a complete worldwide cessation of child-bearing was broached by the late P. D. James in her quasi-apocalyptic novel The Children of Men. James narrates the consequences for Britain in her usual adroit, subtly gripping manner. It’s a powerful story, well worth reading, though the premise that one day human fertility just ends is rather fanciful.

     Dreams of Days Forsaken revolves around two core ideas: a worldwide decline in birthrates, partly due to a plague of infertility; and the invention of a wholly automated artificial womb. The personal, institutional, and geopolitical consequences would be dramatic, to say the least. I hope my tale delivers on them.) Though I don’t go very deeply into them in the novel, I’m mesmerized by the incentives The Womb would offer to women:

• Those whose marriages are endangered by infertility, whether voluntary or otherwise;
• Those determined to protect their bodies and careers from pregnancy and parturition.

     For there’s no question about it: child-bearing changes a woman. It changes her body, of course, but it also changes her drives. The new person in her life must become a part of her priority structure. Other individuals in that structure will be affected. So will any organizations in which the new mother is a participant.

     Herewith, three vignettes about women whose thinking is being altered, none too subtly, by the prospect of The Womb:

---

     Susan read the employment contract carefully. Her prior experiences with such things had convinced her that they deserve special scrutiny.
     She found herself willing to accept its terms until she came to the clause titled Standards Of Performance. It didn’t take her long to find the scorpion’s sting. She looked up at her interviewer. The gray haired matron’s face was impassive. Her hands were steepled before her.
     “What about pregnancy?” Susan said.
     The interviewer raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”
     “The performance clause makes no provision for it. A gravid woman could never sustain the kind of performance specified here.”
     The interviewer’s nod skirted the edge of perceptibility.
     Adam wants children.
     So do I.
     “I think…” She paused. “Under current labor law, this contract is challengeable at the very least.”
     The interviewer’s smile did not touch her eyes. “Perhaps.”
     But I’d have to sign it and commit to its terms to find out, wouldn’t I?
     “I don’t think I can agree to this, Ma’am.”
     “A shame,” the interviewer said. “Your experience and references made you one of our top picks for this position. But the contract is a condition of employment. Best of luck with your job search.”
     The interviewer rose and held out a hand. Susan passed the stapled pages back to her, rose in her turn, and slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder.
     “Well, thank you for your time.”
     The interviewer did not offer to shake hands or see her out.

#

     Adam was nonplussed.
     “Really?” he said. “I thought contracts like that died with the Nineteenth Century.”
     “Apparently not.” Susan sipped at her rapidly cooling coffee. “They wouldn’t back away from it, either.”
     “‘They?’”
     “Sorry, my interviewer. An older woman. Perfectly polite and pleasant, but there was no give in her at all.”
     “Damn. I know this was the one you wanted.” He refilled his mug and took his habitual seat at their kitchen table. “Well, what’s next?”
     She shrugged. “Keep looking. Engineering shops don’t all require labor contracts. Anyway, this is the first one I’ve hit.”
     Adam didn’t answer. He’d gotten the faraway look she knew meant that he’d gone into problem-solving mode. She clamped her lips tightly together.
     Wait it out, Suzy Creamcheese.
     “Do you really want that job?” he said at last.
     “I… did,” she said, “before I read the contract. I don’t think so now.”
     “But what if we could finesse our way around the contract?”
     She peered at him. “What are you thinking?”
     “The Womb.”
     Her hackles went up at once. “Nope. Never.”
     He frowned. “Why not?”
     “Think about it! No pregnancy means no antibodies for the baby and no lactation from me. He’d be vulnerable to a thousand nearly extinct diseases and bottle-fed from the instant of his, uh, birth. Plus, I wouldn’t get the health bonus women get from going through pregnancy.”
     Or the maternal bond from having him inside me for nine months. Peg said it’s real, and after five kids she’ll know. And I want it!
     Adam’s expression had gone flat. “There might be ways to compensate.”
     “Do you know of any?” Despite her effort to control it, her temper had risen. “This is our child and my life we’re talking about. I’m already thirty-two. He might be the only child we’ll ever have!”
     For sure it’s the only life I’ll ever have.
     “Besides,” she continued, “I want to be home with a new baby. The performance clause didn’t mention any reduction in standards for the post-partum period. The mandated leave is only twelve weeks. I could return from maternity leave and get fired for substandard performance a couple of weeks later.”
     “A lawsuit…” he said, and trailed off.
     “Forget it. A company like that will have lawyers up the wazoo. They might even have fought this battle before.”
     Her husband appeared stricken. She could sense the but on his tongue, barely restrained by his lips.
     She blinked and bore down to fight off a sudden rush of tears.
     “I have to chalk this one up and keep looking,” she said.
     “You don’t have any other possibilities lined up?”
     She shook her head. “Not yet.”
     “What about that place back East that cold-called you?”
     “You mean Arcologics?” He nodded. “We’d have to move and you’d need a new job.”
     “Don’t they have a marketing department?”
     Not if Iverson is as smart as everybody says.
     “I don’t think so.”
     “Damn.”
     Adam’s gaze remained hooded for the rest of the evening. Susan knew The Womb was still uppermost in his thoughts… as it was in hers.
     Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

§

     Laura’s three years as the Hanford Agency’s top model had not prepared her for Bill Hanford’s explosion.
     “Are you out of your mind?”
     She gaped at him, all the words blown out of her.
     “I can’t believe you’re even considering it,” he said. “It wouldn’t be ‘just for a few months,’ stupid. No matter how carefully you restored your figure, it would change everything. Your tits, your skin tension, your posture, the way you move and hold yourself. It would ruin you for anything but fully clothed, and we have practically no demand for that. Are you willing to throw away the rest of your career for a baby?”
     “My career…” She faltered.
     “Indianapolis might not be the big time, but damn it, girl, you own this city. This state!” He turned away and started to pack up his equipment. His movements were staccato, jerky and angry, uncharacteristic for such a poised photographer. It was plain that she had unsettled him. “You want to leave all that on the table for some other girl to pick up just so you can have a baby?”
     She could not answer him. But I want a baby was the only thought her mind could hold. He fulminated silently as he packed the rest of his equipment. She shed her bikini and resumed her street clothes. They left the studio silent and empty behind them.

#

     Carlos was not pleased.
     “He’s right,” she said. “I asked around. Models don’t… come back from pregnancy.”
     “So no son,” he muttered. His arms were crossed like swords over his chest.
     She hung her head.
     “We have to choose, love,” she said. “Besides, without my income—”
     “Is that what matters to you? More than a family?” His Salvadoran accent became more pronounced.
     I don’t want to go back to the escort service.
     “We wouldn’t be able to meet our bills without it.”
     He scowled at her. “Yes we could. You know it.”
     I don’t want you to go back to dealing, either.
     “Carlos,” she said, “I want a baby as much as you do. But we have to be practical.” She rose from her seat at the kitchen table, but she did not dare to approach him. “You came this close to going to prison. The cops had you dead to rights. You were lucky that they were so sloppy. The chain-of-custody issue the D.A. missed was the only thing your lawyer had to work with, even if that was enough to spring you. Don’t you think the cops will have their eyes on you now? I may not want to end my modeling career, but I want to raise a baby alone even less!”
     He glared, but he had no comeback for her.
     A protracted, tension-laden silence ended when he muttered “I must think about this,” grabbed his windbreaker, and stalked out of the apartment. She wandered loosely around their home, uncertain what to do next, until the phone rang and Jill Timman invited her to join her at their favorite after-work watering hole.

#

     “He’s furious.” Laura swished her swizzle stick idly through her pina colada.
     “He’s a tough cookie.” Jill smirked. “But so are you. Stick to your guns, girl. It’s your body and your career.” She looked up and scanned the other patrons in the crowded bistro. “I don’t see anyone who has more right to make those decisions than you do. Not for you, at least.”
     “What if he decides he wants a son more than he wants me?”
     Jill shrugged. “Then you lose him. So?” She paused for a sip from her Cosmopolitan. “You’ve been together what, eight months?” Laura nodded. “Don’t you think you’d find someone else fast enough?”
     Laura swallowed past her fear.
     She doesn’t know. Keep it that way.
     “I know, Jill. ‘Always more fish in the sea.’ I could find someone else. But it’s hard. It’s tiring. I’m tired all the time as things are now. And…”
     Jill nodded in sympathy.
     “And you love him.”
     “I… think I do.”
     “So?” The model-turned-event-planner grinned. “What about The Womb?”

§

     Helen stripped off her apron and tossed it into the back seat before slumping into her car. Ten hours on her feet left her exhausted. It would have done the same to anyone. But her tuition was due at the end of the month, and she’d be damned before she’d let the water and electrical utilities send her any dunning letters.
     She cranked the engine, waited for it to settle into a smooth purr, pulled onto Grand Avenue, and drove through the darkness toward her Amherst Estates apartment.
     At least I know I’ll come home to a clean flat and a hot meal.
     Alicia was a clean freak of the best kind. Rather than see a domestic chore done imperfectly, she’d take it upon herself. She’d assumed their apartment’s cleaning and cooking duties immediately upon moving in. It was a great part of why Helen was happy to support the two of them.
     Well, that and that she thinks my stretch marks are cute. And how good she is with her tongue.
     Theirs was a no-bullshit relationship. They liked each other well enough, but there was no love talk between them, and no mutterings about marriage. Alicia stayed for Helen’s support, and would do so as long as Helen would maintain her in an acceptable style. Helen was willing to pay the bills, and would do so as long as the sexy Latina’s attentions to her needs remained enthusiastic and unflagging.
     It’s just these down periods between surrogacies that spit in the soup. But I have to have them. The agency wouldn’t have it any other way.
     At first, surrogacy had provided Helen a more-than-comfortable living plus substantial savings. With Alicia’s arrival, her lifestyle had swelled to include luxuries and pleasures she’d never before indulged. Helen suspected that an attempt to return to her prior, more modest standard of living would endanger their arrangement. She was too accustomed to Alicia’s services to risk that.
     I can’t take another contract until March. I can hardly wait. Until then it’s short skirts, high heels, “Are you ready to order, sir?” and “Is everything satisfactory, ma’am?” Ten hours a day, six days a week. Dear God.
     Well, my feet haven’t fallen off yet.
     As she turned into the parking lot for the residents of the two Amherst buildings along Arnulfson Way, she noticed that Alicia’s car was not in its assigned spot. She frowned.
     Did she go shopping?
     She unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside. Her gaze arrowed to the answering machine nestled in the entryway bookcase. The messages light was flashing steadily. She pressed the Play button.
     BEEP! “Miss Riordan, this is Marion Michaels at Dreams Fulfilled. Due to recent technological developments, we’re experiencing a retrenchment in our in-vitro and surrogacy operations. In consequence, we don’t expect to engage you as a host mother this coming year. Thank you for your services to this date. You have our best wishes for your continued success.” BEEP!
     The messages light went out and the machine fell silent.
     Helen was still gawking at it when Alicia returned.

#

     “It’s the Womb, babe.” Alicia forked up a bite of roast beef, chewed and swallowed. “If it works as advertised, host mothers will go the way of buggy-whip factories.” She glanced at Helen’s untouched plate. “Aren’t you eating?”
     Helen forced a smile. “Waiting for my stomach to settle.”
     “Oh. It hit you that hard, eh?”
     Helen nodded. “Second semester tuition is due soon. It’ll clean me out. If I can’t bag a surrogacy, I don’t know how I’ll pay for my junior year.”
     Alicia shoveled up some peas. “Can’t you promote your services on your own?”
     “I’ve never tried it. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
     “Ah. Could you use social media?”
     Helen shook her head. “They don’t accept ads about anything related to sex.”
     Alicia grinned. “But there’s no sex involved.”
     “They don’t see it that way. They nix anything that even hints at it, to stay out of trouble with the law.”
     “Well…” Alicia laid down her fork and sat back. “You have other things to sell.”
     “Hm? What are you—”
     “If the Womb really works,” Alicia said, “new industries will spring up around it. New markets. So think sideways. You were selling space in your uterus. What else have you got that the Womb might make marketable, you gorgeous five-foot-nine, hundred and fifteen pound blue-eyed blonde with a killer figure and a one-forty IQ?”
     Helen started to answer, bit it back.
     “Maybe the genes that gave you that stuff might prove marketable,” Alicia said.
     “Maybe…” Helen pondered it, shuddered. “But I’d have to let a man put his thing in me.”
     “Not necessarily, babe.” Alicia’s expression turned sly. “You’ve got plenty of eggs, don’t you?”
     “Yeah… wait a minute! If they’re so valuable, how come Dreams Fulfilled never offered to buy any?”
     Alicia shrugged. “Did you ever hint that you were open to the idea?”
     It stopped Helen’s thought process for a second time.
     Is it legal to sell ova in New York? Was Michaels waiting for me to suggest that mine were available?
     “You… might have something there.” Helen picked up her fork to address her dinner, set it down again. “Maybe the first move has to be mine.” She beamed at her housemate. “Thanks!”
     “De nada. Eat!”
     Helen chuckled and picked up her fork again. “Yeah.”
     She’s smarter than I realized.
     How did she know about my IQ?

---

     We don’t have The Womb today, but it’s in prospect. There are teams working on developing one as you read this. Don’t kid yourself: feminism plus youth culture would play into the reactions to such a development. If it were to be made price-competitive with the costs of pregnancy plus childbirth, it would be a powerful influence.

     And with that, we return to contemporary reality.

     There’s been a resurgence of interest in what might be called prewar femininity: i.e., the model for female decision making held up to them by their mothers, which was followed by most. Marriage, wifedom, homemaking, and motherhood are becoming freshly attractive to some number of young women. What’s propelling that resurgence is, in part, the failure of feminism to satisfy many of its adoptees. They’ve reached middle age; they have careers but no kids; they sense that they’ve “missed out” on a critical feature of the female experience. (Some of them don’t have men, either.) That makes the alternative denigrated by militant feminists decades ago loom large in younger women’s thoughts. But what if the young aspirant to “tradwife” status confronted the prospect of remaining unaltered physically by pregnancy and childbirth: i.e., the prospect held out by The Womb?

     Just some early-morning thoughts from a novelist trying not to think about his novel.

The Storyteller’s Revenge

     Each of us should do what he’s best at. Hearken to one of my best-loved characters:

     “You know how new I am to all this. I understand about one word in twenty.” Holloway suppressed an urge to fidget. “Most of it goes right over my head. Like how the responsibilities get distributed.”
     Redmond flicked a hand. “We each do what we’re best at.”
     “And you’re best at this.”
     Redmond nodded.
     “It doesn’t bother you to get your marching orders from people who could never do what you do?”
     The young engineer’s grin became wider. “Should it?”
     “Well...”
     Redmond chuckled and rose from his chair. He studied the gray fabric wall of his cubicle for a moment, then leaned back against the edge of his desk.
     “They can’t do what I do—well, maybe Rolf could—but I wouldn’t do what they do. In business, people are placed both for their skills and their willingness to accept responsibilities. Rolf accepts responsibility for the productivity and well-being of the whole Simulations group. For that, he gets a title and a bigger cubicle than this one. Joe Brendel accepts responsibility for the whole Software department. For that, he gets a bigger title, a secretary, and an office with a door.” Muscles quivered in the young face. “Your uncle accepts responsibility for the whole Engineering division. For that, he gets a really big title and wood furniture. I might disagree with some of his decisions, but he takes the heat for them, not me.”

     A storyteller should stick to what he’s good at: telling stories. (This assumes that he is good at that, of course.) In our division-of-labor economy, that relegates certain other components of the business of telling stories to other persons with different (hopefully complementary) expertises. And in accordance with this distribution, some persons will adopt the guise of expertise and hawk themselves to us storytellers as the promoters we need.

     Trouble is, storytellers have a hard time distinguishing the con men from the genuine articles. The con men outnumber the gems by about ten to one. I’ve recently been targeted by several. All of them claim “years of experience.” All of them present skeletal promotional schemes designed to exploit the storyteller’s credulity and hope.

     Seining out the real thing from the con artists is a protracting and emotionally taxing process. An “administrator’s approximation” would be to assume that they’re all con artists, and to proceed on that basis. I’ve made that my working assumption.

     Of course, that assumption has implications that must be frankly faced. If an arbitrary writer – let’s call him Fran, for convenience – is confronted by a come-on from a con man, what’s the most appropriate response? From what response would Fran derive the most benefit and endure the least suffering and cost?

     Right! Fran would tell him a story. I’ve been doing exactly that. And it doesn’t feel like a waste of my time or energies. In fact, it’s been a hell of a lot of fun.

     It’s especially fun when you just know that your solicitor is “working from a template” and hasn’t the least sincere interest in your oeuvre. I have a slew of cold-contact emails in my “Promoters” folder that look as if they were generated from a template, perhaps with the help of an AI or a Microsoft Visual Basic for Word Adapt-o-Gram. I respond to each of them with a freshly generated tale of woe, in my best idiom.

     I told the first of them that I’m a church mouse, that my little family subsists on Scraped Icebox and Dishrag Soup, that we have to feed our dogs mice, squirrels, and Jehovah’s Witnesses. I could never justify spending a small fortune on her eminently worthy efforts! That didn’t quite do the trick; she came back with “Well, what could you afford?” I let her think I was considering it.

     I told another that I’m indifferent to the American market – that my books actually sell quite well in translation. That one wanted to know which nations, of course. I told her Iran, North Korea, and Papua New Guinea. I haven’t heard from her since.

     I told the most recent one that I’m not really the author of the books published under my name. In actuality, I said, I’m a “cut-out;” the author is a crazed Albanian dwarf with a harelip who avoids all publicity for obvious reasons. The dwarf doesn’t care whether his books sell. Indeed, the revenues from them go into a trust for his as-yet-unconceived grandchildren. I expected her to call me out on that one. To my surprise, she didn’t. Well, there’s time.

     They get a politely worded decline-of-service; I get a little exercise for my imagination. It works out for both of us... though I’m sure they’d have preferred a “Where have you been all my life?” response and an offer of riches beyond all avarice. Yes, it also means that if there were an honest workman in the bunch, who really, truly could and would apply himself to promoting my tales, I’ve turned him away all unknowing. Well, there has to be a downside for everything. But as a preservative for a storyteller’s sanity and bank balance, I highly recommend it.

Many Shadows: A Sunday Rumination

     Thirty years ago, in writing On Broken Wings, I faced a difficult challenge: how to explain religion in the abstract. The explainer was a religious man, though not exactly in the way one might expect from his habits. The explainee was a young woman who knew approximately nothing about the subject, except that her interlocutor was both admirable and religious.

     Here’s what I came up with:

     “Scientists study the properties of things all the time.” He set the pan down in the sink and turned back to her. “They look for patterns in the way things behave, and then they test their understanding by making predictions. When their predictions work, they gain confidence that they’re on to something. When their predictions fail, they junk their theories and start over. Mostly by little steps, sometimes by big ones, always building on the learning of those that came before them, this is how scientists come to know the world.”
     He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms against his chest. There was something in his demeanor she hadn’t seen before, a kind of all-pervading delight that transformed him and made it impossible to look away from him.
     “Scientists always look for the widest, most comprehensive patterns they can find, and then they try to explain them. And they’ve noticed that, the wider and deeper they go, the simpler the explanations seem to get.
     “The great discoveries of the past three centuries have all pointed toward the existence of an enormous central fact, a single law for the whole world and everything in it. All the little patterns we see in things, like legs only being so fast, or arms only being so strong, or water never rising past two-twelve Fahrenheit, are just special cases of that central law, like the differently shaped shadows a statue will cast depending on how you turn it in the sun. Does that suggest anything to you, Chris?”
     It took her a moment to register the question. She began to think. He waited in silence.
     A million million details. A single truth giving rise to them all. Human reason sifting the details for the patterns that hid in them. Human knowledge of the patterns accumulating over the centuries, gradually reconstructing the statue from its innumerable shadows.
     “The more you know, the simpler it all gets,” she whispered. “The parts might be confusing, but it’s made to be understood whole.” The thrill of discovery was coursing through her like an electric current. “Louis, it couldn’t have happened that way by chance, could it?”
     He folded his hands and looked down at them.
     “Some people think it could have, Chris.”
     “Do you?”
     “No.”
     “And that’s religion?”
     He nodded.

     Some readers liked it; some didn’t. Not everyone felt it did the subject justice. But it was my personal take on the appeal of the religious premise: i.e., that there is a Creator behind it all. And this morning, after reading the parable of the Pharisee and the publican, I started thinking about those shadows yet again.

---

     Some brilliant fiction has employed shadow metaphors. The one that comes to mind just now is Ursula Le Guin’s award-winner The Left Hand of Darkness. Le Guin used the shadow of a man as a metaphor for his personal stature and qualities. She gave the men of Gethen the rather serious “game” of shifgrethor to express its importance.

     You cast a shadow, at least when the light hits you just so. But as you turn, your shadow changes. Anyone watching would see those changes. They might bore him or mesmerize him... but unless he’s unusually stupid, he wouldn’t attribute the changes in your shadow to changes in you.

     Thus it should be, anyway.

---

     If you live a more or less normal life, you’ll cast many “shadows:”

• As a child;
• As a student;
• As a young person;
• As a husband or wife;
• As a practitioner of your chosen trade;
• As a source of guidance to your progeny and theirs.

     Those are just the big ones, of course. Within those shadows will be a multitude of details, formed out of the experiences you’ve had along the way. Imagine the degree of vision and concentration required of an artist who attempts to capture all those details. And imagine how hard it would be for you to hold still long enough for him to do it!

     But your shadow is not you. You are much more. A good thing, too, considering how your shadow keeps changing.

     In Jesus’s parable, the Pharisee praises himself for being “not as other men are.” He recounts his pieties as if he were competing for a job opportunity:

     The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican. I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess.

     What kind of prayer is that? Contrast it with the prayer of the publican:

     And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner.

     The Pharisee boasts about his pieties. The publican asks forgiveness for his sins, implicitly saying that he knows he should do better. Jesus tells his audience that the humility of the latter is preferable: “for every one that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.”

     Both men are aware of their shadows. The publican hopes that his will change. His prospects are better than those of the Pharisee, who thinks his practices confer a permanent state of grace.

---

     Jesus also told us to “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” That too is about our shadows. For we all sin: some more frequently or grievously than others. But those deeds are acts in time, and time will continue to pass. If the stain of sin lingers, nevertheless if the resolve to repent, atone, and improve is there, it can be erased. Its shadow is impermanent.

     The publican in the parable may have coerced or intimidated those he taxed. He may have stolen from them. He may have embezzled the proceeds rather than transmitting them to the state. And were his crimes to be discovered, he would justly be punished for them. But those are all acts in time, as impermanent as any other facet of his shadow.

     God will not judge us on our shadows, but on the state of our souls when we stand before him at the Particular Judgment. Did we repent of the sins we knew we had committed? Did we strive to atone and improve? When given a chance to behave better, did we take it?

     Time is given to us as a medium in which to grow and improve. But God stands above time. He’s less concerned with how your shadow looked at any instant than with whether you used the time He gave you to improve in His sight, in keeping with His Commandments.

     Have a good Sunday.

The Bear

     [A reader asked me to repost this. It first appeared at the V2.0 site in August of 2024. New residents in an old, well-established neighborhood must observe the customs of the place. If they want to be accepted, that is. — FWP]

---

     Andrew stepped out of the dense thicket of trees and into a clearing of sorts. A little distance ahead stood a row of willows, regularly spaced. The intervening space was clear of any other woody vegetation. He approached cautiously and found that the willows lined the bank of a small river.
     He strode to the bank and gazed down at the stream.
     The river was only a few yards wide. It flowed westward through a respectably deep gorge. In the dry September weather, its flow was serenely quiet. Its opposite bank was lined by a similar row of willows. The trees stretched eastward and westward to the limits of his vision.
     The uncanny orderliness of the scene, amid such untamed woodland, made him smile.
     Nice.
     He sat by the bank, pulled his notebook and pen out of his backpack, and made notes.
     Andrew had inherited the land a few weeks earlier. It was only the third time he’d set out to explore it. It would take a while before he could feel that he knew it well, for there was a lot of it: more than a square mile of wooded New York wilderness. He’d resolved to cover it all, to familiarize himself with all of it, and to make a record of its salient features. The river certainly qualified as such.
     It's as pristine and gorgeous as the rest of this place. No wonder they fought so hard to keep it out of the state’s clutches.
     He still lacked an explanation for why his parents had purchased the land in the first place. They’d bought it when he was a teen. Three years before their deaths, they’d paid to have a patch cleared and a large rustic cabin built on it. It had to have been a considerable expense. Yet he could not remember either of them ever announcing that they were headed to the cabin for a weekend, or even a day. Certainly they’d never brought him there.
     Neither his brother Devin nor his sister Rachel had ever said anything about it. Though the will had made it their joint property, Andrew’s siblings had swiftly deeded it to him. The use and management of it were on his shoulders. It had made him wonder what they knew that he didn’t. Yet they’d said nothing more to him, whatever they might have said to one another.
     His acquaintance with the land and the cabin had brought about changes he could not yet explain.
     His decision to retire from wage labor at only thirty-eight came as a surprise to his supervisors, but even more so to him. The decision to terminate his lease and make the cabin his home had seemed to follow from it. Yet both decisions had come altogether naturally, as if they had been made by God and were only being announced to him on the spot.
     I won’t starve without a salary. What I’ll do to fill my days, apart from writing a bit more, I still don’t know. Read, think. Wander around out here, I suppose.
     There’s a lot of peace here. Maybe I can borrow a little of it.
     Peace had come hard to him, ever since his adolescence. He’d tried to smother his disquiet with activity. His creativity and his gift for electronics had made him wealthy, but had done little to soothe his inner disquiet. Throughout his waking hours he remained acutely aware that he was a fugitive from his proper vocation.
     What’s done is done. The priesthood is no longer open to me. I’ll come to terms with it, or not. Maybe it’ll be easier now, away from people.
     He reached into his backpack and pulled out the paper bag, that held his lunch. He’d taken his first bite of a ham and cheese sandwich, lamenting that yet again he’d forgotten to add mustard, when the bear appeared.

#

     The bear was typical for the New York woods: about two hundred pounds and shaggy black with a long tan snout. It walked on all fours to the riverbank in no particular hurry. Andrew laid his sandwich in his lap and sat as still as he could manage, acutely aware that he had left the cabin without a weapon. Should the bear prove aggressive, he would be maimed if not killed.
     To his surprise, the bear merely sidled up to a spot beside him, just a few feet away, and lowered itself onto its haunches. It did not face him nor give another indication of having noticed him. It stared into the distance, as if it could see something beyond the river worthy of ursine contemplation.
     After about a minute Andrew cautiously picked up his sandwich and took a bite. The bear turned to look directly at him, and he froze.
     There was no suggestion of hostility in those brown eyes. The animal merely regarded him soberly. It was a gaze of the sort one might receive from a stranger in a tavern, the sort that silently inquires whether there’s any conversation to be had.
     If we were at the Black Grape, he might make a comment about politics or sports. Bears must not take much interest in those things. Not that I know much about them either.
     The bear’s gaze dipped to the sandwich in Andrew’s hand.
     Oh, right.
     He slowly extended his arm, intending to deposit it on the ground between them. The bear edged toward the movement, which caused him a frisson of fear. To his surprise, rather than snatch the sandwich out of his hand with its claws, the bear simply lowered its paws and waited.
     It was an invitation that could not be misinterpreted.
     Andrew laid the sandwich delicately on the ground before the bear. It reached for the gift with one paw, brought it to its snout and sniffed at it, then proceeded to nibble at it daintily. It took its time consuming the thing. When it had finished, it let its paws fall to its sides and gazed once more into the forest beyond the river. Andrew’s nerves began to subside.
     Probably for the best that I forgot the mustard.
     Perhaps ten minutes had elapsed when the bear rose and jumped into the river. Andrew recoiled from the splash the animal made, but otherwise remained as he was. Presently the bear clambered up the bank toward him, a large fish in its jaws. It laid the fish a couple of feet from where Andrew sat and resumed its seat. Its eyes were on Andrew. There was still no hint of aggression in its demeanor.
     Andrew strove to lock eyes with the bear.
     “For me?” he murmured.
     The bear met his gaze. It didn’t move.
     Andrew leaned forward and scooped the fish into his hands. The bear continued to watch him solemnly. He rose awkwardly, faced the bear, and bowed.
     The bear remained seated. It turned to gaze into the forest once again.
     Andrew departed.

#

     The fish was good. Though he lacked experience, Andrew succeeded in gutting and cleaning it. He fried it on his Franklin stove. Salted, peppered, and with some corn alongside it, it made a tasty meal. From the cleaning of the fish through his washing-up after dinner, his thoughts remained on the exchange with the bear. He strove unsuccessfully to fit it into some familiar model of animal behavior.
     It defied understanding. Bears are predators. Even the relatively peaceable Northeastern black bear, the subspecies most common in New York’s forests, could not have been expected to wait for Andrew to surrender his sandwich willingly. It would have viewed it as as something to be taken from him willy-nilly. Resistance would have brought an attack on Andrew’s person.
     The bear’s gift of the fish made the whole business incomprehensible. Predators simply didn’t do such things. Surrendering freshly harvested food to another predator would express submission. A male bear, an apex land predator and a member of the most solitary of all predatory species, would never surrender food to another bear. They’d fight to the death first.
     Yet it had happened just that way. Entirely without violence, other than the bear’s capture of the fish.
     Maybe it was a sport. An exception to its species. There are exceptions among humans, so why not among bears?
     Because this is the wild, idiot. Pacifist bears wouldn’t last long among others of their kind. Probably not even long enough to reproduce.
     Still, it happened. I was there. I may go crazy after a few years living here, but I’m not crazy yet.
     Andrew knew himself to be a sport. Brilliant, from his youth deeply religious, and solitary by choice. Entirely uninterested in the things that made other men’s eyes light and glands pulse. Even his friend and colleague Louis, a polymathic genius, a world-class athlete, and a tower of rectitude, shared more with the common run of men than he did.
     Well, I probably won’t reproduce either.
     He put it aside for another time and dried the last of the dishes. Once his hands were dry and the dishes and utensils were back in the cupboard, he seated himself in his armchair, recorded the events of the day in his journal, then picked up the book he’d been reading, and read until he fell asleep in his chair.

#

     Two days elapsed without incident. Andrew ate, slept, read, wrote in his journal, and ambled around the forest near to his cabin. The fright he’d taken from the approach of the bear had taught him always to take a rifle with him, though he was still lax about having it immediately to hand. He refrained from going back to the riverbank.
     Around noon on the third day after his encounter with the bear, he was building an outdoor fire, intending to heat water in which to wash his laundry and after that, himself. He’d rigged a grate to set over the wood from discarded fireplace andirons. The vessel for the water was a steel tub he’d salvaged from an old washing machine, easily large enough for the task.
     A brief rustling to the west of his cabin drew his attention. A black bear emerged from the thicket.
     Andrew’s rifle lay against the side of the cabin, more than thirty feet away. The bear was closer than that.
     It held a fish in its jaws.
     The same bear?
     Andrew could not tell.
     He stood still as the animal approached. When it had closed to within about six feet, it halted, dropped the fish on the ground, retreated a few feet and sat, eyes fixed upon Andrew.
     What are we doing?
     He still had no idea. Yet it was plain what the bear expected of him. He held up a hand, palm toward the bear, and trotted into the cabin. He found the remains of the ham he’d been eating and weighed it in his hands. There was at least a pound of meat left.
     This should do.
     He returned to where the bear waited and stopped a few feet away as the bear had. He lowered himself to one knee, laid the ham on the ground next to the fish, straightened and stepped back.
     The bear watched, unmoving.
     “For you,” Andrew murmured.
     The bear seemed to understand. It approached, sniffed at the ham, and closed its eyes briefly. Andrew waited.
     A few seconds later the bear straightened and shuffled toward the cabin. It made directly for the rifle Andrew had left there. It sniffed at the weapon, turned toward Andrew, and rose onto its hind legs.
     Andrew felt a fresh thrill of fear.
     The bear did not attack. It held its paws out to its sides, claws plainly visible, and looked directly into Andrew’s eyes. After a moment, its head moved slowly up and down. Twice.
     Unsure of what he was saying by doing so, Andrew nodded back.
     The bear dropped back onto all fours, ambled back to the paired gifts, and took the ham in its jaws. It regarded Andrew once more briefly before dashing back into the forest.
     Andrew felt all his muscles soften at once. It took him some time to master himself. Presently he picked up the fish and his rifle and returned to the cabin.

#

     Rachel debarked from her car as Andrew stepped through the cabin door. He spread his arms as she approached, and they embraced.
     “I see you were serious about living here,” she said.
     Andrew grinned. “What’s the giveaway?”
     She nodded toward the large pile of wood Andrew had cut into stove lengths. “That must have taken you a while.”
     He nodded. “Gave me a few blisters, too.”
     “Think it’s enough for an Onteora winter?”
     “I think so. That’s a bit more than three cords, and the cabin isn’t all that big. Besides, I can always cut more. There are a lot of dead trees out there.”
     She hugged him again and kissed him, then stepped back and regarded him soberly.
     “You’re looking good, Drew,” she said. “You’ve gained weight in the chest and shoulders.”
     “Yeah. Chalk it up to a lot of exercise and a protein-heavy diet.”
     “It’s deliberate, then?”
     “Very much so.” He waved toward the interior of the cabin. “Come on in. I’ll put up water for tea.”
     “Hang on a sec, I brought something for later.” She trotted back to her car, extracted a bottle of Dry Riesling, and presented it to him.
     “I doubt you see much of this in here.”
     He chuckled and took it from her. “Right you are. The wildlife prefers Chardonnay. Come on in.”
     They were seated at his dinette table over mugs of hot tea before their conversation resumed.
     “How’s Devin?” he said.
     “I can’t really say, Drew.” She sipped at her tea. “He keeps to himself even more than before Mom died. I’ve talked to him a few times, but he doesn’t say much. At least not about himself.”
     “Did you tell him you were headed up this way?”
     She nodded.
     “And?”
     “He didn’t react.”
     Andrew grunted.
     “Don’t expect too much of him, Drew. He’s better off not having a lot of contact with either of us.”
     “I suppose. Still, do you think we might be able to get him here for a family dinner next July fifteenth?”
     Her eyes narrowed. “Why that date?”
     His face twitched. “I shouldn’t call it a celebration, but... it’s for a celebration. That’s the day we were finally liberated from our tormentors. Don’t you think that’s a good enough reason?”
     She studied him for a long moment.
     “Yes,” she said at last. “I suppose now that both of them are dead and buried, it’s safe to think of them as what they really were. No more need to pretend we miss them or mourn their loss.”
     “Then it’s on,” he said. “I’ll make preparations.” He rose, stoked the fire in the fireplace, and returned to his seat. They passed an interval in silence.
     The two episodes with the bear rose to the front of his thoughts.
     I can tell her. Anyway, I ought to tell someone, and she’s close to my only choice. Maybe she’ll make sense of it.
     He hunched forward, folded his hands and laid them in his lap, and grinned at his sister.
     “Want to hear a weird story, sis?”
     Her expression became acute. She smiled.
     “Let’s have it, Drew.”
     And he told her.

#

     Rachel nodded as he ran down.
     “How long ago, Drew?”
     “About two months. Shortly after I moved here. I’ve been trying to make sense out of it ever since.”
     She frowned. “You have?”
     “Oh yeah. Bears are top of the land food chain. They take what they want. And they certainly don’t surrender food to other animals. Not even to other bears. Not without a fight.”
     “Hm.” She pursed her lips. “It makes perfect sense to me.”
     He peered at her. “It does?”
     “Oh yes. I’m surprised it isn’t clear to you, but then you’ve never been much for social stuff.”
     “Well,” he said, “do you plan to enlighten me?”
     She grinned wickedly.
     “Rach!”
     “Oh, all right.” She sat back. “I’ll tell you a story.”
     She closed her eyes and steepled her fingers before her.
     “Once upon a time,” she said, “there was a traveler who was looking for a home. He’d never had a true home, and he’d looked for a long while for a place where he might make one. He hoped for privacy, and peace, and if he were to have neighbors, that they would accept him for what he was rather than insist that he become something else.
     “After a long and tiring search, he stumbled upon a place that looked favorable. It promised privacy and peace. Since it looked as if there would be a comfortable amount of space around him, he decided to settle and take his chances.
     “It didn’t occur to him that the place he’d chosen might already have residents. He couldn’t have imagined that they’d regard him as a guest in their home. But that’s the way it was. And one day, one of the neighbors looked him up and clued him in.
     “The traveler was momentarily confused. For a while he had no idea what was going on. But the neighbor—more of a representative of the district, really—gave him enough of a hint that he got the message. And as has always been the custom when one visits another’s home, he presented the neighbor with a guest gift. Food, the offering that says I wish you well in the universal language.
     “The neighbor accepted the gift and offered the traveler a matching gift: food the neighbor himself had prepared. It was about like the traveler had gone to dinner at someone else’s house, except for the absence of a table, plates, and silverware. The traveler accepted the gift, and he and the neighbor parted on good terms. The traveler continued to make the place into a home, the home he’d sought lifelong.
     “Three days later, in keeping with the prevailing custom in the neighborhood, the neighbor came to the traveler’s house with a gift of food. The traveler did as the neighbor had done: he reciprocated with food he had prepared. The two exchanged gifts and parted once more, and the traveler knew by those signs that he had been accepted into the neighborhood. He’d become a neighbor himself. And so his residency in his new home, the home he had sought for so long, began at last.”
     She opened her eyes and smiled. Andrew sat dumbfounded.
     “The bear was the… welcome wagon?”
     “No! Not at all, Drew. You’d entered his home. Without his invitation at that, though it appears he was willing to let you get away with it. As long as you followed the rest of the guest customs before making yourself too comfortable.” She slid forward on her seat. “Do you know the word ‘propitiate?’”
     “Of course.”
     “That’s the point of a guest gift. You’re propitiating the host, letting him know that you come in peace and friendship. A robber or a raider wouldn’t do that. He’d plunder the place, take whatever he wanted and use as much violence to do so as he needed.”
     “Oh.” In that moment Andrew MacLachlan could actually feel his mind expanding. “And the second time, when the bear brought a fish here?”
     “Same thing, Drew. Plus an acknowledgement that you’d made a home here and are now a resident of the community.”
     “I get it,” he murmured. “I get it! But… what about the bit with the rifle?”
     “The way you described it,” Rachel said, “sounded like that was one predator accepting another on equal terms. Also, I think that bear might have been putting you on notice. Telling you to use your claws judiciously, maybe. And maybe he was giving you a friendly warning that it’s not all sweetness and light here. A reminder that even the nicest neighborhood can have a few bad apples in it.”
     So I should keep it with me. That way I maintain my status as someone dangerous enough to be respected, and always ready to do what I must. For the neighborhood.
     “And I used to think I was a bright guy,” he muttered.
     “Oh, you are,” she said. “About technical stuff. But you might want to leave the people stuff to Devin and me.”
     “Yeah.” A laugh burst from him, unbidden. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood, sis.”
     “Just visiting,” she said. “But congratulations on having found your home,” she replied.
     “Think so?”
     “I know so.” She stood and waved in a gesture that clearly meant to encompass the forest beyond them. “The area’s certainly nice enough, but it did lack something before you got here.”
     “Hm? What?”
     She smiled.
     “A chapel,” she said. “And a priest.”
     He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
     “Okay,” he said at last. He rose and stretched. “Join me for dinner?”
     “Sure. As long it’s not something you shot.”
     He chuckled. “I was going to take you to the diner. It’s that or eat from cans.”
     “The diner will do.”
     He offered her his arm, and she took it.
     “The neighborhood could use a few more restaurants,” he said.
     “Give it time.” She handed him the keys to her car. “You drive.”

==<O>==

Copyright © 2024 Francis W. Porretto. All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

The Feminization Of The West

     I’ve had this article in my Future Columns folder for a week, and have just returned to it. I originally saved it both from admiration for its frankness and from a desire to think over what I might say to amplify its thesis. After a week’s contemplation, I’ve reached a conclusion: not much. It’s that good.

     The core of the thing is the general displacement of reason – decisions based on logic and evidence – by emotion. The author delineates a number of developments that brought about that displacement. It’s connected to the efforts to “diversify” various occupations, especially journalism, entertainment, education, and law. That gave rise to cadres of women in those occupations that would habitually make decisions and render judgments based on the consensus about how the matters under judgment made them feel.

     Emotion is a poor substitute for rational analysis, especially when it’s elevated above the facts. Thus, this feminization of critical specialties and institutions has resulted in many injustices. Author Helen Andrews is candid about this devolution. She does a good job at connecting feminization to the “wokeness” plague. However, she fumbles at the conclusion:

     Thankfully, I don’t think solving the feminization problem requires us to shut any doors in women’s faces. We simply have to restore fair rules.

     But wait just a second: The sexes differ on what’s meant by fair. Now that the feminization of so many important institutions is an accomplished fact, who will decide what fair really means? Will it be the logic-and-evidence, performance-oriented men, or the emotion-oriented, make-sure-everyone-feels-good women? And even should men prevail in the argument, is it likely that women will go along with it in practice? We can’t just flush them out of the power positions they’ve attained. Imagine the howls that would arise should the men start overruling the women repeatedly, even regularly!

     Men often give in to women simply for a little peace. It’s as commonplace in the boardroom as in the home. Women know that and use it. So the restoration of reason supreme over emotion will require men to “cowboy up:” to learn once again to stand firm despite the punishments women can inflict on men, and so endure them. It’s possible that the feminization of our society has progressed too far for that to happen without first suffering a rash of convulsive institutional failures.

     Please read the whole column and form your own conclusions.

You Say You Want Justice?

     Justice is an appealing concept. Just about nobody rejects it, at least in the abstract. But even those loudest in calling for it seldom appreciate what it would require.

     Our nation is rife with injustices. Some of them are perpetrated by the very organs that are supposed to enforce justice. Others occur because all too often, the “forces of justice” are disinclined to do their jobs, or have been told not to do them. And still others are consequences of previous injustices that haven’t been remedied.

     Oh, sorry; I’ve neglected the proprieties, haven’t I? Good morning, Gentle Reader! I hope your day has been going well. As for myself, I’ve been up since 4:00 AM. That’s become my “normal” rising hour. And ever since I awoke, the word justice has been rattling around in my head.

     When injustice runs riot, the imperative question is why? The answer is almost always unpleasant.

---

     Late in 2020, I wrote about the prospects for the return of the “vigilance committee.” The possibility seemed to loom large at that time, owing to the rioting that had afflicted so many American cities. To the best of my knowledge, nothing of the sort happened. Given the rampant injustices being inflicted on peaceable Americans and their property, one must wonder why not.

     We’ve been propagandized relentlessly about “private justice.” The propaganda equates it to injustice, as if The State has some magical quality that blesses acts of coercion. But it’s not so. “The State” is a fictitious entity. It works through the wills and deeds of individuals in its service. If those persons succeed in “doing justice,” what distinguishes them from persons not in The State’s service who would have done the same things?

     I put those thoughts into the mouth of my best-loved protagonist:

     The Friday afternoon confessions were seldom well attended. Schliemann hadn’t had a penitent in more than ten minutes. His mind was beginning to wander when a new shadow appeared on the confessional screen.
     “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
     The old priest sat straight up.
     “Louis?”
     “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been by, Father.”
     “I’ve been worried, Louis. Are you all right?”
     There was a long silence.
     “No. This will probably be my last confession.”
     A cold hand slipped around Schliemann’s heart and squeezed.
     Oh, my God.
     The priest listened in silent agony as Louis recited a litany of minor faults and self-indulgences.
     He always confesses to the same things. Never anything serious. He’s about to face the Particular Judgement, and I have yet to hear anything about two killings committed in his front yard.
     Louis fell silent, waiting to hear what his penance would be.
     “Anything else, Louis?”
     “No, Father, I’m done.”
     I can’t let it pass!
     “What about the two men you killed?”
     A hiss came through the screen. The shadow head pulled itself a little higher.
     “What about them, Father?”
     Schliemann’s throat was dry. “I seem to recall a commandment on the subject.”
     “As do I. But did it forbid killing, or murder?”
     “The text says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ “
     “That’s the English text. What was the Aramaic? Or the Hebrew?”
     Schliemann started to expostulate and stopped himself. A twitching was developing in his right elbow. It made him want to jerk his arm.
     “Actually, Father, it isn’t two men, it’s four. And all for the same reason: because I caught them practicing the abuse of the helpless. I don’t tolerate that sort of thing.”
     “You don’t tolerate...when and where were the other two?”
     “About eight years ago, on a back street on the fringe of the city. They were raping a teenage girl, holding a knife to her throat.” Louis’s tone was conversational. “I killed them both and walked the girl home.”
     “How is it that a man of your size and gentility knows so much about violence as to be able to kill two men at will? You weren’t carrying your shotgun that day, were you?”
     “No, Father, I wasn’t armed.”
     “Well?”
     There was a pause.
     “Call it a gift. I’m not exactly what I appear to be. I never have been.”
     “And you feel no remorse for any of this? My God, Louis, what kind of man are you? Have I ever known you at all?”
     “I may not be exactly what I appear to be, Father, but I am a man.” The words were droplets of molten iron. “Twice, when there was no one else to do it, I’ve acted in defense of my kind. To do so, it was necessary that I kill. Was it horrible? Yes, just as it should be. Did it leave me with nightmares? Yes, just as it should have. If the necessity were to recur, would I do it again? Yes, in a heartbeat. And that, too, is as it should be.”
     Schliemann had had all the words shocked out of him. The twitch had traveled down from his elbow to his hand, whose fingers were dancing beyond his control. Something seemed to be happening in his ribcage, too.
     “The Church doesn’t have much to say about earthly justice, Father. I’ve always wondered why. Maybe the notion of divine justice is as much as it has to give us. But justice in this world is a human artifact. Either it’s made by individuals or it doesn’t exist. I have made my share of it, and I don’t regret it in the slightest. Now you’ve heard about all of it, though I never intended that you should. Does the Church cast me out for this?”

     Well? Where lies the difference that condemns “private justice” but sanctifies “justice” in the hands of The State? If there is no difference, then when The State fails to do justice, why don’t we act? When injustices are perpetrated by The State itself... why sit we here idle?

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     One recent case has fired many persons’ fury: the August 22nd killing of Iryna Zarutska by Decarlos Brown Jr. on a North Carolina train. Brown, a career criminal with 13 convictions to his record, attacked Zarutska for no imaginable reason. But what has followed?

     Brown has been indicted for first-degree murder. Yet no one could say that justice has been swift. Rather, Brown has been remanded for 60 days for “psychiatric evaluation.” The question on many minds is whether he could face the death penalty. Incredibly, the answer is six months away:

     CHARLOTTE, N.C. (WBTV) - The man accused of killing a Ukrainian woman on a Charlotte light rail almost two months ago was scheduled to have a crucial court hearing on Thursday.
     Decarlos Brown Jr., the man accused of killing 23-year-old Iryna Zarutska back in late August, was scheduled to have a Rule 24 court hearing on Thursday, Oct. 16. A Rule 24 hearing is for the state to determine whether or not they would pursue the death penalty.
     Court documents said that the hearing has now been pushed back until April 2026.
     The decision to delay the hearing came from Brown and his attorney, Daniel Roberts. However, the reason for the delay was redacted, according to court documents.

     “The reason for the delay was redacted,” eh? A black career criminal wantonly murdered an innocent white woman? All the facts were multiply witnessed and video-recorded? But whether the murderer will face capital punishment must be delayed, for reasons the public cannot be allowed to know?

     That doesn’t sound like justice. Not even like justice-in-process.

     I shan’t speculate on why the delay was granted. (It’s fairly clear why Brown’s attorney requested it.) But if this sounds like justice to anyone, I haven’t met him.

     The attempts to guarantee justice built into the American system are best expressed here:

     Amendment V

     No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a grand jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the militia, when in actual service in time of war or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

     Amendment VI

     In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.

     Six months merely to determine the possible penalty, plus God only knows how much longer before the trial can be held, does not sound “speedy.” More, at least one part of the process is deliberately being concealed from the “public.” And of course, the psychiatric evaluation mentioned above is being kept secret as well. Whatever the ultimate verdict of the evaluators, we’ll never learn the basis of their decision.

     If this is the quality of “justice” that the worthy citizens of North Carolina can expect from The State, beware. For summary justice rendered by private hands looks splendid in contrast. And the more incidents such as the murder of Iryna Zarutska come to light, the better the only possible alternative will seem.

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     For further thoughts on this subject, please refer to these essays.

The New Class

     [A short teaser. I may be headed “back to Hope.” If so, it will be to a time separated from the time of the stories in the Spooner Federation Saga novels. For Hope, as the events of Freedom’s Fury indicated, is in crisis. States are forming among a people whose ancestors traveled between the stars specifically to leave the State and all its works behind. For twelve centuries and more, they kept that foul entity from arising among them.
     But anarchy is not stable. Nothing is.
     Among a people dedicated to human freedom, some would react against the emergence of embryonic States. I’ve striven to imagine how they would seek to combat statism. Here’s is one of my imaginings. – FWP.]

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     None of the freshmen had the slightest idea what to expect of the course.
     “The course” was what they called it. It had no other title, for none had been assigned. It had a catalogue number. It was listed as a first-year requirement. But nothing else was published about it. Upperclassmen refused to discuss it.
     Professor Paul Wengen had a curious reputation. The catalogue gave his vital statistics and a long list of honors awarded to him. It cited a great many affinities and pastimes, including awards earned in fields as diverse as diplomacy, cooking, and the high jump. Yet it failed to state his academic specialty. It made him seem the least academic of men, yet his praises were sung far and wide as a trailblazer of the intellect.
     Only one upperclassman, a senior with a towering reputation of his own, had deigned to say anything about Wengen. It was brief: “He means every word. Take him seriously.”
     It gave rise to a considerable tension among those waiting for class to begin.

#

     Wengen strode to the front of the lecture hall without preliminary. He wore a white polo shirt, black slacks, and a broad smile. He carried no briefcase, no sheaves of notes. He faced the young men with an expression that combined excitement and confidence in equal parts.
     “Good morning. I’m Paul Wengen. You are here for several reasons. The strongest, of course, is that you’re required to be here. For you know nothing about this course. You’ve been told nothing. You have no basis for expecting anything in particular. And of course, you know nothing about me, your instructor.
     “I, on the other hand, am here for a single, well-defined reason: To get you to fall in love.
     “I am in love. I have been for my whole life, all fifty-four years of it. I’ll be in love for however many years remain to me. I expect that if I should ever die, I’ll still be in love. And I’m here to infect you with that same love.
     “The love of which I speak is the love of life itself.
     “This is the most selective educational institution that has ever existed. Yet its requirements for admission are unpublished. You were admitted here not because you’re academically gifted, not because your parents were alumni, not because your families are wealthy. It’s possible that none of those things are true of any of you. You were asked to apply for a unique reason: because our scouts sensed a spark in you, a spark I and others hope to fan into a mighty flame. A spark of love for life.
     “You are vital. You’ve exhibited curiosity and demonstrated courage. You’ve taken the lead among your fellows, at times when no one else dared. Those are indications of the spark. It’s uncommon, rarer than a perfect ten-carat diamond. That is why we invited you to apply. That is why we charge no tuition.
     “Not all those we invited were accepted. The ratio of invitations to acceptances is about fifteen to one. Nor are you all guaranteed to graduate. You cannot do so without first passing this course.
     “There is no syllabus. There is no text. There will be no examinations. I am the sole determinant of what will occur here. I will also be the one to decide who will pass and who will fail.
     “Here you will learn something that no other academic institution has ever dared to teach: what it takes to lead without coercion. Even those who fail will understand it by the year’s end. And you will understand this as well: why a society that has forgotten what it means to love life begets States and their tyranny. Conveying that understanding to others—those not privileged to attend this school—will be your life’s great task.
     “Alta has already fallen to the States. Great families, once admired for true leadership and true achievement, have spawned coercive mechanisms that even they failed to foresee. Their own leaders have told themselves and their neighbors that police forces and militias are necessary evils, required to keep order. They mean well. The first generations of tyrants always do.
     “You will be their antithesis. You will provide the refutations of their ‘necessity’ arguments. You will do so with your very lives—and not by traveling to Alta and preaching among them, but here, on Sulla, where the seed of statism has not taken root. You will lead free men, free families, and free societies. Families and societies suffused by the love of life.
     “Do you accept the challenge?”

“Critical Thinking”

     You cannot hold a pistol to the head of the Tao. -- C. S. Lewis

     A young woman I met recently said she intended to homeschool her as-yet-unconceived children. I was hardly going to try to argue her out of that intention, so I just murmured an affirmation. But she went on to say that her goal was to teach them to “think critically about everything.” The formulation piqued me, so I asked for a clarification.

     Her response? “They should question everything.”

     I was powerfully moved to ask “Exactly what do you mean by that?” However, among the things I’ve learned in my dotage was how upset others can become when I press that way. Most people believe their communication skills to be at least adequate, the actual evidence notwithstanding. They generally dislike the imputation that they’re not being clear. So in casual conversation, I try to restrain sharp inquiries, especially with new acquaintances.

     But she got me thinking. I suppose that’s a good thing, anyway. And you, Gentle Reader, are the ultimate victim beneficiary.

---

     Just what does it mean to “think critically?” In this usage, “critically” doesn’t have the meaning of “to criticize.” So what does it mean? Is it possible the word was poorly suited to my interlocutor’s needs? If so, a lot of people have been disserved by it.

     What people generally appear to mean is thinking of the sort that “drills down:” i.e., that doesn’t accept flummery or fluff, but probes for core concepts and confirmation.

     There’s a limit to that, though. When questioning reaches the layer of fundamental premises – objective reality and the precepts that flow from it – it must stop. Questions such as “Why is there an objective reality?” or “Why does traditional Judeo-Christian morality work so well?” are unanswerable except by stating a religious premise: “Because God wills it.” And as I’ve said before this, Deus vult isn’t really an argument.

     C. S. Lewis made this point most tellingly in The Abolition of Man:

     The Chinese also speak of a great thing (the greatest thing) called the Tao. It is the reality beyond all predicates, the abyss that was before the Creator Himself. It is Nature, it is the Way, the Road. It is the Way in which the universe goes on, the Way in which things everlastingly merge, stilly and tranquilly, into space and time. It is also the Way which every man should tread in imitation of that cosmic and supercosmic progression, conforming all activities to that great exemplar. ‘In ritual’, say the Analects, ‘it is harmony with Nature that is prized.’ The ancient Jews likewise praise the Law as being ‘true’.
     This conception in all its forms, Platonic, Aristotelian, Stoic, Christian, and Oriental alike, I shall henceforth refer to for brevity simply as ‘the Tao’. Some of the accounts of it which I have quoted will seem, perhaps, to many of you merely quaint or even magical. But what is common to them all is something we cannot neglect. It is the doctrine of objective value, the belief that certain attitudes are really true, and others really false, to the kind of thing the universe is and the kind of things we are. Those who know the Tao can hold that to call children delightful or old men venerable is not simply to record a psychological fact about our own parental or filial emotions at the moment, but to recognize a quality which demands a certain response from us whether we make it or not.

     At that level we confront laws that no legislature can modify or repeal. It is the layer of the metaphysically given: that which unalterably exists whether we acknowledge it or not. So questioning can proceed no further; the critical thinker must accept that what is, is.

     In that regard, to think critically – i.e., to ask “Why?” and “How do you know?” about such propositions as are put to us – is the attitude of the natural scientist. He begins with the premise that there is an objective reality, and that we are embedded in it. He hopes to reach that bedrock layer, and add to our understanding of how it works. But he does not doubt that there is an objective reality. Neither does he insist on knowing why it exists.

---

     A great cleavage lies between the Aristotelian – i.e., he who accepts objective reality – and the Berkelian – he who doesn’t. They cannot argue; their bases are incompatible. If he is to arrive at defensible and useful knowledge, the critical thinker must be an Aristotelian. Moreover, he cannot learn from a Berkelian. Indeed, he must avoid such people; extended interaction with them can produce psychosis.

     So although the exhortation to “question everything” sounds fearlessly rational, he who adopts it must accept as an operating rule that once his questioning reaches bedrock reality, it can proceed no further. What is, is! That can sound uncritical, yet it’s the critical premise that makes all other questioning possible.

     Should you encounter someone who refuses to accept the existence of objective reality, or who insists on knowing “why” it exists, smile and walk away. Don’t get trapped in his psychosis by trying to argue with him. It would be “uncritical.”

Unusual Developments

     As a rule, one shouldn’t expect anything much from cold-callers and cold-emailers. They’re playing a numbers game, like the Frenchman on the corner who propositions every woman who walks by. Certainly, most will walk away – a few will beat him with a bumbershoot – but the percentage that smile and agree to go with him are all that he can properly service. So they keep cold-calling and mass-emailing, in hope of making a living out of the one percent or so that agree to work with them. This is most certainly the case for self-styled promoters of the fiction of indie novelists.

     But now and then, one proves to be hungry enough to be willing to invest a little time and effort in landing the sale. I encountered one recently. I actually got her to read one of my novels from cover to cover. Despite the speculative nature of such an expense, I’m toying with the idea of engaging her. (Psst! Don’t tell the C.S.O.)

     But that’s prefatory. Granted, it’s made me contemplate loosening the purse strings, but it’s still just a foreword to what’s really on my mind.

---

     Fairly recently, a new contributor joined the stable over at PJ Media: Jamie K. Wilson, the head honcho at Conservatarian Press. Miss Wilson is quite serious about her mission:

     Stories matter. They shape cultures, preserve traditions, and pass truth from one generation to the next.
     At Conservatarian Press, we’re here for one simple reason: to publish the kind of stories the mainstream industry is leaving behind — the ones chosen on merit, not on checkboxes.
     I’ve loved stories since I was a child, curled up with Tolkien, Carroll, Lewis, MacDonald, and Shakespeare. Yes, I treasure Jane Austen too, but let’s be honest: most of the Western literary canon was written by men now dismissed as “out of fashion.” Their works still inspire, still endure — and so should today’s writers, no matter who they are.
     That’s why we promise one thing: we will never choose a story based on sex, ethnicity, orientation, or any other label. We publish good stories, period. In fact, the list of what’s considered “unpublishable” by the mainstream seems to grow every day — which only makes our mission more urgent, and more joyful.

     Upon perusing the offerings at Conservatarian Press, I found several of high quality, including Marina Fontaine’s excellent novella Chasing Freedom. So it’s a publisher indie writers of a conservative or libertarian bent might want to consider. But what’s really impressed me about Miss Wilson is the depth of her insight into what’s wrong with contemporary fiction generally. This essay is particularly impressive:

     After the Second World War, evil had a face. The swastika left no doubt. The men who stormed Normandy were good; the men who filled the camps of the Axis were not. Kamikaze pilots slaughtered thousands of brave young men on ships in the Pacific. Stories reflected that certainty of a clear good and evil: High Noon, The Lone Ranger, Gunsmoke. Courage meant something because sin was real.
     Then came the postmodernists.
     Deconstructionism swept universities and publishing houses. Theorists denied that stories carried truth at all. The hero became a construct of power; every righteous act was secretly oppressive. Virtue could exist only with irony. Writers who once sought truth began dismantling it.
     And ideas never stay on paper. In those years, the literary avant-garde of New York and the television studios of Los Angeles were the same world. Harlan Ellison, Rod Serling, Ray Bradbury, Paddy Chayefsky, Gore Vidal: all men who wrote for The Atlantic one week and CBS the next. Their post-moral philosophy, nurtured in the best universities and writing programs, moved straight onto the screen. The cowboy and the sheriff became relics of an oppressive age.

     Please read it all.

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     I’m not going to recapitulate the whole of Miss Wilson’s excellent essay. Instead I’d like to ask two questions: one that historians have traditionally asked, and one that virtually no one but atavistic recluses obsessed with understanding human nature and human societies ever raise:

1. Why did X happen?
2. Why did it happen when and where it did?

     The second question is the more important of the two.

     The intellectual-moral disease Miss Wilson fingers in the snippet I cut from her essay has always existed. What caused it to rise to dominate the cultural life of the United States? What were the necessary preconditions? What provided the propulsion it required? Why didn’t the healthy part of American society, which has always been larger and stronger than the sick part, react against it as it should have done?

     It was a highly unusual development, one that no historian of prewar America has successfully grappled with.

     I have a couple of ideas, but they’re as yet unbacked by adequate study. I’ll be looking into the matter, while I contemplate spending my stepdaughters’ inheritance on the services of a promotion-and-marketing expert. But I’ll set the key idea down here for my Gentle Readers to ponder:

     Just after World War II arrived the technologies that produced mass media capable of blanketing the entire nation.
     In keeping with Gramscian “long march through the institutions” theory, the destroyers of American culture made seizing control of those media their highest priority.
     They particularly targeted fiction, both in print and electronic dissemination.

     For stories matter critically! They express and reinforce our values, particularly our moral and ethical values, by the most powerful of methods: by embedding them in the motivational structures of believable characters the reader can admire or detest. That’s why one novel from Ayn Rand has advanced the love of freedom and enduring values more effectively than all the works of all the theorists taken together.

     And as I haven’t said for a while now: More anon.